by Maden, Mike
She leaped to her feet and grabbed her backpack with her wallet, passport, car keys, and a Ruger .327 LCR. There was a hidden emergency exit in the back of her office that led to the underground garage.
As she turned to run, her office door blasted open, nearly tearing the hinges off.
An FBI agent in tactical gear and bump helmet stood in the doorway, flecks of blood on his face.
She dropped her backpack.
The SWAT leader pointed his M4 carbine at her chest.
“Where the hell is Logan?”
68
KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE
After studying the map earlier, Jack located a service road with an underpass beneath the elevated embankment that took him near the river. As soon as he exited the underpass, he turned off the service road and onto the narrow dirt track that ran between the river and the embankment. The big knobby tires on the Wrangler splashed dark mud and bright leaves as it raced toward the distribution center. He was hidden from view the entire way, including when he passed the razor wire demarcating the massive WML distribution complex.
He slammed his brakes and skidded to a halt. He was opposite the engine of the train he’d heard pulling to a stop at the frozen food warehouse earlier when he and Gavin did their drive-by. The Wrangler was still below the elevated railroad embankment and hidden from sight on the other side.
Jack jumped out and disengaged the release lever on the winch and unspooled the high-capacity rope. He pulled on the steel winch hook and coiled the rope around his shoulder as he went. After he unspooled the entire eighty-foot length, he freed the other end attached to the winch drum by cutting the small-diameter Dyneema loop spliced to the end of the rope with his knife.
With eighty feet of twelve-thousand-pound capacity rope secured across his chest like a bandolier, he scrambled up the embankment. He dropped to his stomach near the fence, peering beneath the train’s big steel wheels, checking for guards or workers who might be in the area. The last several cars of the long train were being unloaded with forklifts and work gangs, too far away to be of any concern—at least for now.
So far, so good.
Now for the fun part.
Razor wire.
Jack pulled off the rope coil and set it on the ground, took off his sport coat, and picked up the rope coil again. Slipping his index finger through the hanging loop in the back of his coat, he grabbed the fence and started his climb. The big diesel train engine shielded him from any eyes that might be watching for him on the other side.
When he reached the razor wire on top, he threw his sport coat over it and climbed over, then worked his way down the other side, dropping to the ground for the last few feet.
He dropped to his stomach again and did another scan. Everybody seemed to be going about their business around the yard. Nobody was in close proximity to Jack. If something as catastrophic as TRIBULATION was going on inside the frozen warehouse, these people outside were obviously unaware of it.
Jack scuttled toward the front of the engine, opposite of his target, the building just on the other side of the train that stood next to the warehouse itself.
The HVAC building.
* * *
—
Jack put together a stupidly simple plan. Emphasis on stupid, he whispered to himself, kneeling down by one of the train’s big steel wheels.
He didn’t have any other options. Shutting TRIBULATION down immediately was the objective, and he knew the FBI was still twenty minutes out. He couldn’t risk waiting for them. Hell might be breaking loose even now.
Without the other Campus gunfighters to assist, without blueprints and schematics of the facility, and outnumbered by at least ten armed security men, all operators by the look of them, he could only come up with one wild-ass, long-shot, Hail Mary solution.
Gavin’s brief to him on the phone about TRIBULATION included one interesting fact. The computer they built relied on super-low temperatures. “Almost absolute zero,” Gavin had said.
The only thing Jack could think of was the HVAC unit he’d spotted from his drive-by. He thought about taking out the power lines that ran along the track, but a computer with that kind of sensitivity would have some kind of power backup like a generator. There was no way to kill the power to any of the facility for any length of time.
That left one option.
* * *
—
Jack crawled beneath the engine in the space between the giant diesel tanks, the rope still looped around his shoulder. Luckily, the rail car immediately behind the engine had already been freighted. All of the loading activity was still taking place far in the back, far away from him. Everyone associated with the train was focused there. It was go time.
Now or never.
Jack scanned the area one last time, then dashed out from beneath the train and sped over to the cinder-block HVAC building. He dropped down low behind it, once again finding cover from eyes and cameras that might be searching the area.
Or so he hoped.
He turned the corner and tried the steel doorknob into the building. That would be the easy way in.
But it was locked. He swore and returned to the back wall again. He then slipped a quick peek at the wall opposite the door.
Bingo.
A service ladder was bolted on the outside of the building, leading to the roof.
Jack dashed over to it and scrambled up like a monkey on crack. He reached the top and dropped to his belly again. The big refrigeration unit’s massive compressor roared inside its aluminum housing. Hot exhaust blew through the long metal louvers.
And the electric motor that ran the whole thing hummed furiously next to Jack.
Thank you, baby Jesus.
Jack pulled the rope off his shoulder and unwound it enough to be able to grab the steel winch hook. He secured it through the massive eyebolt welded to the top of the motor casing used to pick up the heavy device for installation and removal.
Jack scanned the yard again. He was still undetected. He pulled the remainder of coiled rope back over his shoulder and let it out as he climbed down the ladder, retracing his steps to the train. He quickly knotted the other end around a steel I-beam of the engine’s undercarriage and then stopped himself.
The rope was rated for twelve thousand pounds of weight. The electric HVAC motor weighed a thousand pounds at most.
But the motor was bolted to the rooftop of the building. Was the rope strong enough to bust those bolts?
Maybe not.
Shit!
He made a quick calculation.
It should work.
Jack untied the rope and instead of securing it, looped the end of it around the same undercarriage steel I-beam, then pulled the end of the rope and brought the rest of the rope through it. He double-checked to make sure he was clear, then dashed back up the ladder.
He ran the end of the rope through the eyebolt a second time.
He scrambled back down the ladder to tie the end off again beneath the engine.
And slammed into a security guard.
The guard’s hand flew to his sidearm as he shouted, “What the fu—”
But Jack was faster, and a throat punch cut the man off mid-sentence.
Gasping for air and grabbing his broken larynx, the man crumpled to his knees. Jack smashed his own big knee into the man’s lower jaw, flopping him back into the dirt, knocked out cold.
Jack snatched the man’s pistol out of its Kydex holster and shoved it into his own waistband, then scurried back under the train and finished tying off the rope. It might have been a really dumb idea but at least now he had twenty-four thousand pounds of pull to work with instead of just twelve.
Jack scrambled back to the fallen guard. He grabbed the stocky man by the shoulders and dragged him back underneath the train, then pushed him down the e
mbankment. Jack couldn’t tell if he was still breathing. Any other day he might have stopped to try and help him but right now one man’s life wasn’t worth the millions at risk. Especially a Sammler puke.
If that’s what he was.
Only one thing left to do.
* * *
—
The train engineer slept like a log in his seat, his watch alarm not due to go off for another twenty minutes. But the shock of cold steel pressing into his ear woke him early.
He turned in his seat. His groggy eyes widened at the sight of Jack’s Glock pointed at his gray-bearded face.
“What’s this?”
Jack pointed around the engineer’s side of the cabin. “This is a train. And you’re an engineer. Let’s get this thing moving.”
The man sat up. “Moving? Where? I can’t—”
Jack pressed the pistol against his forehead.
“Now. Move this rig.”
“Where?”
“About a hundred feet should do it.”
“Look, mister—”
Jack pointed at the control panel with his pistol. “That’s the brake release, that’s the throttle, and that’s the dead man’s handle. Either you can run this thing or I can blow your brains out and run it for you. Decide which it’s going to be before I finish squeezing this trigger.”
“Okay! Okay!”
* * *
—
The four-thousand-horsepower General Electric EMD 710 series V-16 diesel motor roared into life as the throttle engaged to the first position.
Couplers banged as the wheels began moving. Loaders way back down the line started cursing and shouting, wondering what the hell was going on.
The train inched forward, pulling forty-five cars and flatbeds along with it, creating chaos with the guys still inside or on the forklifts.
The double-tied rope that Jack had fixed to the undercarriage strained as the train lurched ahead. Ten feet later the rope was taut as a violin string. The train kept moving.
The big eyebolt on top of the electric motor began to bend, threatening to shear off as the motor mount bolts held fast to the concrete platform.
But the cheap Chinese iron bolts that held the motor to the platform gave way first, snapping like twigs.
The electric motor tipped over. The drive belt running from the motor to the HVAC unit inside slipped off its drive wheel. The train rolled on.
Thirty seconds later, the big electric motor crashed to the dirt, dragging down its thick power line along with the transformer it was connected to.
Jack had killed the HVAC compressor.
No more deep freeze.
* * *
—
Klaxons blared. Jack had definitely kicked the hornet’s nest with this one.
He turned around just as a pair of heavy boots clanged onto the steel deck of the cabin behind him. The uniformed guard was breathing heavily from his sprint to catch the slow-moving train, and the scramble up its eight-foot ladder to engineering. He saw Jack’s pistol in his hand and reached for his own.
A 147-grain nine-millimeter bullet from Jack’s Glock 43 plowed into the man’s forehead. Brain tissue and bone fragments splattered the fire extinguisher on the wall behind him. The guard dropped to the floor.
Bullets suddenly spanged inside the train cab, fired from outside through the window facing the warehouse. A few bullets ricocheted inside.
Like hornets.
The engineer screamed and grabbed his wounded arm.
“Let’s get out of here,” Jack said, grabbing the man by the shoulder. “We’re done here.”
Jack dragged the engineer out of his seat. When the engineer’s hand left the “dead man’s handle,” the train’s brakes engaged. Steel wheels screeched. Jack and the engineer stumbled as Jack hauled him by the shoulders toward the door.
Another guard was climbing up the ladder. Jack kicked him just beneath his nose with the toe of his boot. Even through the heavy leather, Jack could feel the crunch of snapping bone and cartilage. The man flew backward, hitting the ground like a rag doll, his unconscious mind unable to brace his body for the fall.
Jack dragged the engineer forward but the older man jerked away, still clutching his wounded arm. “Shoot me here or leave me alone.”
“I can help you.”
“Go to hell. You’ve helped enough. I can take care of myself.”
“Suit yourself. Thanks for the ride, old-timer.”
“Shove it, asshole.”
Jack slid down the ladder, stopping himself at the last rung, then jumped off. He lost his balance and fell to the ground.
Bullets kicked up the dirt near his face.
He was a dead man.
* * *
—
Jack rolled hard away and down the embankment, bullets marking the spot he just vacated.
He reached the bottom and rose to his knees, pointing his pistol up where he knew his attackers would appear.
A quick glance showed him the Wrangler was a good three hundred feet away. If only he could get to it.
The first guard appeared at the top of the embankment, an MP5 in his hands. He raised it to fire—
His head exploded.
An FBI sniper had found his mark.
69
CROATIA
Parsons’s new identity, complete with her new Montenegrin passport and biometric data to match, had gotten her all the way to Dubrovnik, where she boarded a private helicopter.
She’d been a nervous wreck until she’d cleared Italian airspace and crossed the Adriatic. She monitored the news but nothing was mentioned about TRIBULATION. Neither a global financial crash nor a shooting war had occurred nor seemed imminent.
No matter. That was all Logan’s affair. She had achieved her dream. Everything else was in the past.
She’d covered her tracks and made her arrangements. Her spirits rose with the Eurocopter as it lifted into the sweet golden light of a glorious sunset. In less than half an hour, she’d arrive at her final destination, a small town of twenty thousand on the crystal blue Adriatic coast, surrounded by Venetian walls and filled with Mediterranean charm. Peace, quiet, beauty, and no extradition treaty were just a few of the benefits she intended to enjoy in her early retirement.
The only luggage she brought with her was a small, inexpensive carry-on with just enough personal items and protein bars to make the twenty-four-hour trek. She left her electronics and her worries behind.
The handsome, blue-eyed pilot had greeted her in the small but efficient office of the FBO where he operated. She was warmed in all the right places by his charming smile and runner’s physique, but she knew this wasn’t the time to break character. She did, however, accept his offer of a gin and tonic before boarding. Her favorite.
Now some five hundred feet above the white-capped water, she felt utterly safe. The adrenaline surge of the last twenty-four hours finally caught up with her. She felt herself suddenly tired sitting in her seat, the rhythmic pulse of the beating rotors lulling her to sleep. It had been a long journey, but now she was free. She blinked heavily. The blue-eyed pilot was in the left seat navigating. He turned around and smiled at her again.
“Tired?” he asked.
“Terribly.”
“Just close your eyes. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”
But she was already asleep.
* * *
—
The blue-eyed pilot whispered a command into his headset to the other pilot, a woman. She nosed the EC145 into a gentle dive, dropping altitude to just fifty feet off the deck. She stopped in midair, hovering.
The blue-eyed pilot unbuckled himself and climbed back to the passenger compartment. He felt for a pulse. She was still alive, her breathing long and deep. She wouldn’t wake for hours.
In fact, she wouldn’t wake at all.
He reached behind her seat and pulled out a heavy duffel. He secured a thirty-kilo dumbbell to her right wrist with a pair of handcuffs, unbuckled her seatbelt, opened the sliding door, and shoved her out.
The dumbbell hit first, dragging Parsons by the right arm into the bright blue water, her body following like an arrow shot into the sea.
He closed the door, climbed back into his seat, and buckled in for the short flight back home.
DAYS LATER
70
CAMP DAVID, MARYLAND
Jack Junior and his dad stood at the number one position on the skeet range, just beneath the high house.
The range officer, Mike Cravy—a three-time NSSA national champion shooter—pointed at both men. “Ready?”
Jack and his dad both nodded back. “Ready.”
“You won the toss,” Ryan said.
Jack took his stance and raised his shotgun, a Benelli SuperSport Performance Shop semiauto. He smashed the oversized red release button and the bolt slammed home with a satisfying thunk.
“Pull!”
The first bird flew out of the high house behind him. Jack fired, smashing the bird, just as the second bird darted from the low house. He shattered that one, too.
“Nice job, son.”
“The first station’s easy.”
“No, I mean everything else.” He looked his son in the eyes.
“Thanks to what you and Gavin did, we avoided a global economic apocalypse, recovered the five trillion, and stopped a potential holocaust.”
Jack shrugged. “That was more Gavin than me. You’re up.”
Ryan took his position, a case-hardened Caesar Guerini Summit Limited over and under in his hands. A real beauty, a recent anniversary gift from his wife. Another classic beauty.
The President laughed. “That train thing you did was pretty slick.”